Matter
by Complicity
Summary: It was only ever temporary, it would always come to an end. Now, just where does that leave Gene Hunt? One shot.


**Matter.**

**A/N **

**One of those where I'm not quite sure if it makes sense or not. It does in my head...? But then that's not necessarily a good thing! **

**Inspired by The Jam and Roxy Music, used them both a couple of times actually (other than the lyrics in italics) wonder if anybody will spot the sneaky bits! **

**Anywhoo, as ever, characters not mine, but never mind. I adore your feedback, good and bad.**

**X Sarah**

A satisfied sigh is imminent, but before Gene Hunt rolls over into soft fresh sheets as a prize for beating the alarm, a familiar slam of metal versus metal and a shrill ring brings him bolt upright, dragged into heightened conciousness with a start. The memories of the night before come back in a flood, drowning him into a familiar panic.

-o-

The atmosphere in the car is electric, Gene can't help but become wrapped up in her childish games, influenced easily in his intoxicated state. At this point he isn't sure how they came to be here, a fleeting memory of an argument, a challenge, talk in Luigi's he'd been sure was just talk. He'd egged her on, judgement jeopardised by the pop of another cork. She was never going to do it, she was being a drunken lush again. Then she was out of the door, keys in hand, the silence broken by her distant giggles and ringing in his ears. He should have been worried then, he was supposed to be. She'd pushed him far enough, but he wasn't going to let her push him over the edge. Why did he let her get in the car?

The speed crashes through to sixty as she fumbles with the tapes, singing loudly, badly, tuneless and out of control. He's navigating the wheel relatively well, he thinks, proud of his lack of inhibitions in this state, thinking he looks pretty cool. Only losing control now and then, when she pushes too hard on the accelerator or bumps her head into his outstretched arm. Her fault, bloody women, he chides.

The music takes him back. Before her time, maybe, but it doesn't stop her wailing along, eyes closed and hair billowing in the wind from the open window. She's not concentrating on the road anymore, neither of them really seem to give a toss. It's all about the release, the teenage immaturity, the pounding music preaching adolescent insanity. The unity and the danger.

_A police car and a screaming siren, a pneumatic drill and ripped up concrete, a baby wailing and stray dog howling, the screech of brakes and lamp light blinking._

Oh yeah, the music takes him back. He tears his eyes from her in time, but maybe the inevitability of it all slows his reaction. A fruitless grope for the brake pedal reminds him of his helpless position in the passenger seat, it's all he can do to screech her name in a strangled rasp before instinct prevails and he swings the steering wheel to the right. His side of the car careers into the wall with an impending force he can feel before he can _feel_.

At the sound of her name she rolls her head over to face him, all tousled curls and smudged makeup, sated smiles and stomach churning eye contact. A connection. He's sure her foot never leaves the accelerator but in that moment, enchanted by her gaze, his world slows to a pace that he never thought possible.

The wall impacts with an explosion of shattered glass and the reverberation of crushing metal. He braces himself, he looks into her eyes and he prays their unbreakable gaze won't haunt her forever, and he's more surprised than anybody when the pain doesn't come.

The wail of sirens in the darkness sounds more high pitched and panicked than ever, as if CID themselves are orchestrating the tight sound of emergency. The world is closing in as if street lamps are switching themselves off one by one. Through all of the confusion he feels a soft warm hand grip his own with urgency, and a hollow laughter chills him to the bone.

'Come on.'

He's not sure how they're no longer in the car, there wasn't a specific moment, an escape, but somehow the shouts of sobered, worried detectives seem distant and beneath them. She drags him down uneven streets, badly lit and becoming more obscure and monotonous by the minute. Covered in sheets of skin soaking relentless british drizzle. At one point she slips, misjudging the curb and forcing him to lunge forward to catch her in time. She feels so terrifyingly empty that he almost drops her in an instant. She's no lighter than normal, just somehow devoid of feeling. What is this? He hisses the words into her ear as if scared they'll be heard. She giggles. She bloody giggles as she pushes him away.

'Get off, Gene!' They stand in silence, he's stung by her vicious push and she's studying him with a mischievous glint in her eye. He doesn't recognise her, not really. _'Bols?'_ an empty echo left floating in the wind, left to chance. She turns away, and they continue. They know he'll follow her, he knows he's under her spell and as the street appears to widen he has to work harder to keep up with her increasing pace.

Nothing seems real tonight, the blur of streetlights fading into one another runs deeper than his usual intoxication dictates. Something much less mortal than alcohol is controlling his state of mind, and it doesn't let him dwell. He dashes down a set of slippery stairs in a narrow alley, almost missing the quick turn his companion had made. As if a reward for his success, she takes his hand again, dragging him down another set of deep, narrow stairs into a dingy wine bar that feels crowded and anonymous, even in its desolate state. She's breathing heavily near his right ear and it's a comfort, a relief to find she still does.

It isn't long before they're nestled deep into a corner of the bar, sharing a bottle of something red and tasteless. He feels numb from the evening, even her unbroken gaze leaves him hollow. It's been a long time since he's felt such loneliness, with mind and body, in a strange place and a strange time. She cups both of her hands around his cheeks, her breath close to his.

'If there is something..?' she leaves the half sentence hanging for a moment, her brow troubled, as if a thousand thoughts are surfacing, as if she's found a new answer. Her gaze drops with an exhale he finds himself sharing, unaware he'd even paused for breath. 'Just a game.' Her practised accent forms eloquently around the simple phrase.

She needs him to let her go, and he knows that he already has. Martyr to her cause. She's grateful, yet ever so sad. This must be goodbye. She doesn't let him kiss her, and their soft embrace leaves him feeling light headed.

-o-

A sharp kick in his side, the side she was nestling against, is the next thought Gene can physically comprehend. His head is pounding, and a lonely bouncer is dragging his sloth like form to its feet. A bouncer in a shabby underground dive, with no soft lyrics and sweet Merlot. Only sodden floors and the smell of cheap lager and piss.

"What the bloody 'ell?"

"Look mate, yer' gonna 'ave to go." _Scouse, bloody perfect. Thinking more clearly, better._

"This was a bleedin' wine bar. It had, poncey cushions and," He gestures wildly about the room, stopping suddenly as the words, _'wifi access'_ and, _'chip and pin' _leap from nowhere to catch at the back of his throat, in favour of a mystified slur. He reaches for his hip flask, not thinking so clearly now, but bloody staying put.

Somebody lays the first punch, and before too long the drone of a siren encroaches upon their shouts, to lazily break up a half hearted fight.

-o-

The slam of the cell door leads Gene's gaze to rise, and he finds himself on this cool warm morning, looking up at his bemused DS.

Ray Carling is trying to cover his unease by concentrating on his cigarette, shifting from foot to foot and trying to avoid eye contact with the Guv, his boss, left emasculated in a cell without his black coat and trademark boots.

"Come t' collect you, Guv. Viv rang, we found out about the crash. That bastard deserved what 'e got."

Shifting feet again, the Guv's gaze so intense it's beginning to make Ray feel nervous. He looks outraged, and Ray inwardly curses himself for volunteering to be the messanger.

"Layton, Guv. The bent snout you wer' givin' an earful. When the car spun 'e got the full impact. You alright, Guv...? 'Fraid, er,"

He coughs at this point, backing away from Gene and praying to be spared in the fallout,

"The er, the Quattro." Head bowed, prepared for fury, silence is the last thing Ray expects to be faced with. Silence from Gene Hunt is as eerie and unpredictable as a bloody war mine.

-o-

Realisation on such a scale is a spooky concept. Gone, forever. Prevented.

Gene remains silent as he drives Ray's clapped out motor, letting his lapdogs fill him in on the last twenty four hours. He's unafraid of acting so out of character. If anything, this is just keeping them on their toes.

"That new DI we've been waiting on, Drake, not 'appenin. Posh bloody nancy cancelled yesterday. This mornin', call from the docks. Somethin's rattled those coke 'ead yuppies and it's kicked off at a party on a boat. That Markham's in it up to his neck, goin' ballistic at some prozzy."

"_I know what's rattled Markham. I've killed his boss." A hazy memory, a forgotten future._

"What's that, Guv?"

-o-

_Lift up your feet and put them on the ground_

_You used to walk upon, when you were young._


End file.
